


We Gotta Stop Meeting Like This

by ashford2ashford



Series: Midnight City - Team Sleuth [3]
Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22960519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashford2ashford/pseuds/ashford2ashford
Summary: Sleuth is sick and tired of Slick randomly jumping him in the street. It's becoming a routine.
Series: Midnight City - Team Sleuth [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/28979
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	We Gotta Stop Meeting Like This

Sleuth is no stranger to nights like these.

Pain and blood fill his vision for a moment and then slowly ebb away like tears caught in the rain. Instinctively, one eyes closes against a torrent of crimson, and the other green orb searches around frantically for the source of the attack. Sticky. Fingers are slick as they clutch the key - no the gun, no the key, a gun, a key, damnit, when did this become so hard? - tightly in his shaking grasp. 

Slick with blood. 

Slick like the grin spreading slowly across the face of the man in front of him. 

Spades Slick.

Staggering to his feet, head reeling from the previous impact, Problem Sleuth winces and wipes his hand on his jacket. Blood is Hell to get out of fabric, but he would rather it was there than in his eyesight. A dark stain on an otherwise immaculate detective's coat. 

It's almost appropriate. 

Sleuth is no stranger to the feeling of darkness. He's been there, seen it, done it, got the tee shirt and most of the souvenirs from the gift shop. Even now, years later, after so many stints in prison or sobering up in the corner of a jail cell, his fingers still twitch and itch whenever he passes something he likes the look of.

Like they're doing now.

Only this time they're wanting to wrap around a certain mobster's pencil thin neck and squeeze as hard as they can. Senseless violence can sometimes be cathartic. Certainly the type of diplomacy that Sleuth excels at.

"Hey there, chucklefuck." Pausing occasionally to stop himself from slurring his words, the detective shakes the fuzz from his head and tries to put up a hard-boiled front. Slick preys on weakness like some kind of stabby jackal. It wouldn't do for him to realise that Sleuth can only see with one eye - and is smelling blood, and his head is spinning, and he is fighting to stay standing, and - and is certainly not as used to it as he is. 

Slick's grin widens, almost goading Sleuth into running his mouth some more, and the iron bar he was holding clatters noisily to the floor. It rolls a little, coming to a halt at Sleuth's heel, but the detective stops himself from looking down at it. He already knows that it's got blood and blonde hair stuck to it. 

"I'm impressed you're still standin'." Slick's voice sounds like someone trying to play a rendition of the masochism tango using barbed wire and broken violin strings. Every syllable throbs and aches in Sleuth's already thrown mental state. The mobster chuckles - if you could call the sound of knives down a chalkboard thus. "That flesh prison of yours is sturdier than I thought."

"Sounds kinky. Although I don't ever want you to repeat those words ever again." That's right, Sleuth. Keep that smile on your face and the sarcasm flowing. "We gotta stop meeting like this, pal. You know you could just send flowers to my office?"

"You think I'm trying to look for a Kismesis in this broken town?" Honestly, Sleuth literally has no idea what Slick is on about when he uses that word, and - GPI knows - he uses it a lot. Either way, the constant insistence and explanation is keeping Slick from attacking him. "Whatever it is I'm feeling for you, it ain't black."

"Sure thing, pal." More blood drops from Sleuth's head wound, this time causing the blonde to pull out a handkerchief and wipe away the excess. At least Slick is giving him the chance to clear up the stickiness around his eyes. It's not often he gets that opportunity. The short and sharp mobster attacks him like this at least once a week. Honestly, he should expect this by now. "Whatever you say. Black, white, blue, green, red…"

"Definitely NOT red!" 

"Whatever!" Sleuth is starting to suspect that Slick is more than a few screws loose. He's definitely lacking the instructions manual too. "You gonna give me some context to this day's attack, or did you hit me with a pipe to wax philosophy about colours?"

Even though he knows that Spades Slick exists to wind him up in this plane of existence, Sleuth sometimes can't help but get dragged off tangent. Ever since the Midnight Crew first showed their ugly mugs around the city, it's been non-stop hassle for Team Sleuth (not their official name, but Sleuth likes to get a rise out of Ace when he calls them that). 

Pickle Inspector has been in hospital so many times, they might as well stick a revolving door onto it just for him. Ace is drowning in paper work and nursing bruised knuckles on an almost weekly basis now. Sleuth…

Well, he has to deal with Spades 'Chucklefuck' Slick every once in a while. Playing a game of cat and mouse. Fighting off what can only be Slick's version of an advance. Listening to him talk endlessly about what's black and what's red and what's not either of those two colours in particular. 

He really needs a cigarette.

In fact, he downright starts to debate lighting one up as the mobster responds to his questions, satisfying his nicotine craving at least. For now he doesn't do so; choosing looking professional rather than like he doesn't give a damn.

"I ain't knocked all of your last two brain cells out, I hope." Slick grumbles, almost quietly, like he's insulted Sleuth would ever forget why he randomly mauls him, "You usually react with more violence than this after I attack ya."

Sleuth does not want to admit that the level of violence is slowing building with every passing second. As is his urge to just let it go. He breathes smoke out into the cold Autumn air, "Oh jeez. Lemme think on that a minute! You hit me with a pipe! Across the head! Can you excuse me for being a little dazed and bloodied?" 

This only makes Slick more irritable. He bares his teeth like a dog would, "Oh come on! You didn't fall unconscious! I held back! Stop whining about it!"

Now it's Sleuth's turn to become angry. Slick is crossing a line that he had no idea existed. Pushing every button, and pulling every lever, until something happens. 

What actually happens is that Sleuth suddenly remembers which side of his key is his gun.

And he does not hesitate to pull the trigger.

"AUGH! FUCK!" The scream that is torn from Slick's throat causes Sleuth to close his eyes for a second. A shiver races up and down his spine. Almost pleasurable. 

One kneecap explodes in a shower of blood and bone. It won't cripple the S.O.B, but it certainly acts as some sort of fucked up catharsis for the detective. He grins and stands up fully, straightening his back, and cocks the gun again. "No smartass remarks for that, wise guy?"

"YOU SHOT ME IN THE KNEE!" Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, Slick is furious, his single eye wide open in pain and pure rage. 

And then there's a flicker of fear as Sleuth levels the gun at his head. 

"Yeah. An' you jumped me. Call this 'self defence', pal." Sleuth spares a moment to appreciate how GPI damned hard-boiled he must look right now. Blood dripping down one side of his face, green eyes alight with pure steeled anger, mouth cocked lightly in a smirk; the only thing missing here is a cigarette. 

Which reminds him…

Patting one pocket of his coat, the detective finds a crumpled pack of cigarettes and pulls one out with his lips, following that motion with a quick search for a lighter. Smoke curls in little wisps around his face, momentarily obscuring the view of the mobster, and then settles onto a thin line that drifts and vanishes into the night air.

Professionalism be damned: time to look badass.

"So...red or black or whatever bullshit you come up with…" Sleuth spits the names of the colours out bitterly (furious that he is unable to think of them without associating them with Slick now), "Tell me why you attacked me this time."

"Saw you. Attacked you. Ain't difficult to find a reason. Especially with that smug face." Every short sentence is punctuated with a hiss of pain. Most of them are spoken on the exhale of breath. Slick clearly is trying to not focus on the broken bone or the dripping blood. His hand clutches the wound and keeps the pressure on it. 

He's not going to be lunging forward any time soon. 

Sleuth pockets the key that has now appeared in his hand and keeps it at the ready in his inventory's weapon slot. He folds his arms and sighs. "I don't fucking get you. I really don't. You're an asshole for the sake of being one. I've every reason to arrest you, but just looking at you makes me pity whatever day GPI was havin' when he made ya."

GPI would probably be insulted with the very idea that he could screw up a creation. In fact, the pain in Sleuth's head throbs a little, almost as though the great ogling deity is punishing his arrogance (so much so that Sleuth has to mutter "alright alright I'm sorry" under his breath).

Unfazed by this comment, Slick obviously has more concerns to worry about, starting to apply a piece of cloth (he has torn the sleeve off his shirt with his teeth) to his wound. He curses. Grits his teeth so hard that the coppery blood starts to drip down his lip. Spits bloody saliva onto the ground. 

"Damn. Flesh and bone really sucks." The mobster grumbles, looking a little pale with the blood loss, sweat beading on his clammy skin. "This wouldn't've happened with carapace."

There it was again. A mention of another way of being. Slick has done this dance before, always mentioning some other world, or insisting that the human body is inherently flawed in some way. Almost like he doesn't belong here. 

That's not too far fetched either. Sleuth plays embassy with clowns, weasels, pigs and elves. He's slain the horror terror of Fluthulu and been molested by too many moist eldritch tendrils to count. Interplanetary visitors - who aren't quite used to being human - are not completely out of the realm of belief for this detective. 

"Ah well. Sucks to be you." Sighing, Sleuth shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs lightly, "Enjoy the walk home." 

Slick's had enough punishment for one evening. As Sleuth leaves the scene, he can still hear the cursing of the mobster behind him, echoing long into the night.

Serves him right, he thinks, taking a drag of his cigarette and heading for the hospital to get his head seen to.


End file.
